MMB Chapter 243 The First Snow at the Glass Workshop: A Textbook Example of Deep Affection
Chapter 243 The First Snow at the Glass Workshop: A Textbook Example of Deep Affection
Chapter 243 The First Snow at the Glass Workshop: A Textbook Example of Deep Affection
The early morning in Otaru, Hokkaido, didn't bring the stunning snowscape the crew had hoped for. Instead, a blizzard swept in, obstructing visibility. "This snow is too heavy; we can't go up the mountain, and the light is completely ruined." Standing at the hotel entrance, Shunji Iwai looked at the white expanse outside and decisively waved his hand. "Adjust the schedule! We won't film the finale today. The entire crew will move indoors and to the streets of town to film the scenes of Shigeru Akiba and Hiroko searching for clues!"
Film production is always dependent on the weather, and such last-minute schedule changes are common.
Soon, the crew set up their equipment on the snow-covered slope in Otaru.
The first scene is where Shigeru Akiba accompanies Hiroko Watanabe to Otaru, searching for clues about a "female Fujii Itsuki" who looks exactly like her amidst the falling snow.
"Power on, Action!"
The moment the clapperboard fell, Kitahara Shin, standing in the snow, underwent an extremely terrifying change in his aura.
He completely concealed the ruthless and decisive edge he usually displayed as a leader.
The arrogance of Goro Zaizen in "The White Tower," the ruthlessness in yakuza movies, and even the oppressive aura of a chaebol in his usual suits, were all stripped away in this moment.
He is now just an ordinary glass craftsman, rough in character yet deeply affectionate to the core, Akiba Shigeru.
This is what is called "returning to simplicity." No exaggerated physical movements or strained lines are needed. Kitahara Shin simply hunched his back slightly, put his hands in his coat pockets, and spoke in a casual tone characteristic of the Kanto dialect.
The pauses in the dialogue and the rhythm of breathing are so precise, like an extremely delicate scalpel, cutting open the core of the character bit by bit.
Especially the way he looked at Miho Nakayama.
It was a man's subconscious, restrained affection as he looked at the woman he deeply loved, a desire to protect her that was deeply felt; but at the same time, hidden beneath that affectionate gaze was a trace of bitterness and jealousy towards a dead man. Because he knew very well that in the heart of the woman before him, the deceased Fujii Itsuki was still firmly held.
The handling of these micro-expressions is absolutely brilliant. The slight downward droop of the eyelids by three millimeters, and the hint of helplessness in the corner of the mouth—it completely brings the soul of Akiba Shigeru to life.
The crew members who were shivering in their military overcoats all held their breath at this moment.
They had seen Kitahara Shin's films before and heard the terrifying rumors about this "5 billion yen actor." But it wasn't until they stood on the set with their own eyes that they truly understood one thing: it wasn't the title of "Actor" that gilded Kitahara Shin, but rather his unfathomable and exquisitely nuanced performances that gave this crown its true value and weight.
Standing opposite Kitahara Shin, Nakayama Miho's feelings are the most direct.
She was still desperately trying to recall the details of the script they had discussed the night before, attempting to capture Watanabe Hiroko's sense of confusion. However, the moment she met Kitahara Shin's eyes, all her skills and plans shattered completely.
Kitahara Shin raised his hand very naturally and brushed a snowflake off her shoulder. His movements were gentle, yet they carried a restraint that dared not cross the line.
There's no need to act anymore.
As soon as Miho Nakayama looked into his eyes and felt his silent acceptance and bitterness, Hiroko Watanabe's obsession with her ex-boyfriend and her deep guilt towards the affectionate man beside her welled up in her eyes like a flood bursting its banks.
She was completely "dragged" into the play by Kitahara Shin's performance, which was so powerful it was like a game-changer!
"Cut! Perfect!"
Sitting behind the monitor, Shunji Iwai suddenly took off his headphones, his whole body trembling with excitement.
Shunji Iwai had always harbored a secret worry in his heart.
Although Kitahara Shin had already proven his unparalleled dominance in the pure romance genre back in 92 with "Tokyo Love Story," a full three years had passed. During this period, Kitahara Shin's acting career and real-world status underwent a dramatic transformation.
From the power-hungry Professor Zaizen in "The White Tower," to the hardcore police officer who raked in 5 billion yen at the box office in "Bayside Shakedown," and then to the commanding aura of a powerful figure who wields life and death while running a vast entertainment empire in real life, Shin Kitahara's trajectory in recent years has been far too assertive and domineering.
Shunji Iwai was genuinely afraid that this super-tycoon, who had become accustomed to dominating the world of fame and fortune and the big screen, might not be able to accurately switch back to that extremely restrained and delicate art film frequency after such a long time. He even worried that the uncontrollable aura of authority emanating from Shin Kitahara might inadvertently shatter the fragile and cold undertones of the film "Love Letter," which was as delicate as falling snow.
But now, looking at the footage on the monitor, Shunji Iwai realized how terribly wrong he had been.
Kitahara Shin's performance was so nuanced it was almost unbelievable.
Even the rhythm of exhaling white breath and the lightness or heaviness of footsteps in the snow have an extremely strong cinematic quality.
Shunji Iwai suppressed the excitement that made him want to scream.
In the past, when he was filming, he used cheap new actors. He would explain a scene to them ten times over, and he would rehearse the camera angles and lighting countless times.
But now, he suddenly realized the most enjoyable state of being a director: all he had to do was push the camera over and fix it on Kitahara Shin's face, and then he didn't have to worry about anything else, just let him do his thing!
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"Everyone, you've worked hard. Let's take a ten-minute break!"
As soon as the director finished speaking, the crew's assistants rushed over with hand warmers and hot water. The freezing cold outdoors in Hokkaido was so intense that one could barely bend their fingers.
In places out of the camera's view, Kitahara Shin naturally displayed the thoughtfulness of a mature man.
He took a freshly bought, hot canned coffee from Secretary Aida, pulled the tab with one hand, and handed it to Miho Nakayama, whose nose was red from the cold.
Without further ado, he gently draped his large spare down jacket over Miho, who was still shivering.
"Warm your hands first, don't let your face get frozen, there are still indoor scenes later." Kitahara Shin's tone was gentle, with the considerate manner of an elder, without the slightest overstepping of boundaries.
As Miho Nakayama held the scalding hot coffee in both hands, watching Shin Kitahara turn and walk back into the snow, whispering with Shunji Iwai about the next storyboard scene, a seed in her heart began to take root and sprout wildly in the icy snow of Otaru.
She felt her vision becoming increasingly blurry.
She was starting to lose her senses; she was no longer able to tell whether she was the "Hiroko Watanabe" who couldn't escape the shadows of the past and felt guilty towards Shigeru Akiba, or the "Miho Nakayama" who was completely captivated by Shin Kitahara's gentleness and strength in reality.
The line between on-screen and off-screen became extremely blurred under the man's down jacket.
But Miho Nakayama was an extremely clear-headed person. She looked down at the coffee in her hand, warning herself over and over again: Shin Kitahara already had his own life and his vast world at the top of the pyramid. She had neither the right nor the ability to interfere.
Moreover, she could see very clearly that Kitahara Shin only had that extremely gentlemanly work attitude and the care he showed to his partner towards her.
This respect made her both grateful and deeply saddened.
In the afternoon, the film crew moved to a traditional glass workshop in Otaru City.
This scene is a crucial turning point in the film's emotional narrative—in front of the scorching glass furnace, Shigeru Akiba kisses Hiroko Watanabe with an extremely domineering yet passionate gesture, attempting to pull her back to reality from her obsession with the dead.
Inside the workshop, several large furnaces were burning at full power, creating an extremely high temperature that contrasted sharply with the icy and snowy landscape outside.
"Mr. Kitahara, this scene requires you to take off your coat to show the realism of glass artisans working in high temperatures," said Shunji Iwai, wiping his sweat.
"no problem."
Kitahara Shin took off his coat and sweater with great efficiency, leaving only a very simple, slightly distressed black tight-fitting sleeveless vest.
When he walked up to the furnace, the female staff members on site, including Miho Nakayama, blushed involuntarily.
Kitahara Shin's physique was incredibly well-maintained. Under the intense heat, a fine layer of sweat quickly seeped from his bronze skin, and the explosive muscle lines on his arms and shoulders, illuminated by the furnace flames, exuded an extremely strong, mature masculine hormonal tension.
This was a stark contrast to the restrained man in the snow wearing a coat.
"All departments, prepare—Action!"
With a clapperboard clapping, Kitahara Shin finished his work with the glass blowpipe. He turned around and looked at Watanabe Hiroko, who was standing to the side, still looking somewhat dazed.
At this moment, the anger and deep affection in Akiba Shigeru's heart reached their peak.
Kitahara Shin strode over and grabbed Nakayama Miho's shoulder. He lowered his head, his eyes filled with an aggressive heat and suppressed bitterness.
"Hiroko, look at me," he said in a low voice with a Kansai accent.
Then, with absolute certainty, he lowered his head and kissed her lips.
According to the script, this was a kiss where Shigeru Akiba unilaterally vented his emotions, while Hiroko was supposed to be passive, even with a hint of resistance and helplessness.
However, the moment their lips touched...
Kitahara Shin keenly sensed something was amiss.
Instead of dodging, Miho Nakayama seemed to have found some kind of outlet. Her hands suddenly gripped the edge of Shin Kitahara's sweat-soaked vest, her knuckles turning white from the force.
Whether it was Kitahara Shin's imagination or not, from a blind spot out of the camera's view, he felt Nakayama Miho, with her eyes closed, respond to the kiss with extreme force. That force carried a complex mix of trembling, resentment, and a hint of desperate, moth-to-a-flame despair.
At this moment, she was no longer kissing Akiba Shigeru, but Kitahara Shin, who was forever out of reach in reality.
Kitahara Shin's heart skipped a beat. But with his terrifying professionalism, he didn't hesitate for a moment, and naturally deepened the kiss with that force, pushing the tension in the scene to an absolutely perfect peak.
In the following days, the snowfall in Otaru became increasingly excessive, even bordering on devastating.
The production crew listened to the advice of the local director and checked the weather forecast, confirming that the blizzard would continue for at least another week before the weather gradually cleared. Forcing the filming of the finale on the snow-covered mountain in such extreme weather not only resulted in inadequate lighting but also jeopardized the safety of the crew.
Shunji Iwai had no choice but to adjust the schedule again, bringing forward all of the female lead "Fujii Itsuki's" solo scenes in Otaru.
For Miho Nakayama, this was an enormous test. She needed to seamlessly switch from the melancholic and confused "Hiroko Watanabe," burdened by a heavy past, to the carefree, slightly ill-informed, and oblivious "Itsuki Fujii," in a very short period of time.
But to everyone's surprise, Miho Nakayama was in an astonishingly good condition.
In a junior high school in Otaru City, the snow was already ankle-deep.
"Action!"
In front of the camera, Miho Nakayama wore a slightly bulky thick coat, a red scarf around her neck, and held an old-fashioned Polaroid camera in her hand.
She was entrusted by Hiroko Watanabe's letter to return to her alma mater to find the boy who shared her name.
Traces of "Fujii Itsuki's" past existence.
Miho Nakayama walked along the edge of the snow-covered playground and raised her camera. With a "click" of the shutter, the photographic paper slowly emerged. Looking at the familiar running track, bicycle shed, and frost-covered library windows in the lens, the emotions in her eyes began to undergo an extremely subtle transformation.
At first, she felt a sense of relief at having completed her task, along with a touch of nostalgia. But as she walked through corners of her memories, the boy's figure, which had been sealed away in her mind and even deliberately ignored by herself, began to become clearer and clearer, uncontrollably.
The vague, wonderful feelings she had during junior high school, which she herself was unaware of at the time, fell gently into her heart like the falling snow.
Miho Nakayama slowly lowered her camera. Standing in the snow, her eyes became somewhat dazed. That belated realization of her feelings, and the sudden realization after many years that it was her "first love," were all presented in an extremely vivid and natural way. There were no deliberate tears, only a pure innocence mixed with nostalgia and a touch of melancholy.
"Cut!" Shunji Iwai shouted excitedly from behind the monitor, "Great! That's a good take!"
All the staff members breathed a sigh of relief and showed expressions of admiration.
Kitahara Shin, who had been watching the whole thing from the outside, also had a slight smile on his lips. He raised his hand and clapped lightly in a very supportive manner.
He could see very clearly that Miho Nakayama's performance had completely broken away from the formulaic approach of "idol dramas" and truly reached the threshold of cinematic quality.
Hearing the applause, Miho Nakayama turned around. Seeing Shin Kitahara at the other end of the snowfield, the melancholy she had been immersed in her role instantly vanished, her cheeks flushed slightly, and she jogged over through the snow.
"I have to thank Kitahara-kun for this." Nakayama Miho looked up at the tall man in front of her, her eyes shining with undisguised light. "If it weren't for what you said to me in the corridor that night about the inner projection of the characters, I wouldn't have been able to distinguish between Hiroko and Itsuki, these two completely different states, so quickly."
She didn't explicitly state the secret feelings she had that night when she watched him make a phone call, but the gratitude and dependence in her words were more genuine than any dialogue.
Kitahara Shin smiled and casually handed her a hot water bottle: "It's because you're quick to understand. Go and rest for a bit. The rest of the scenes should be handed over to the younger generation."
Miho Nakayama followed his gaze.
In the nearby rest area, two teenage actors, wrapped in thick military overcoats, huddled on a bench like two quails, their faces even paler than the snow on the ground.
Those were Takashi Kashiwabara, who played the young Fujii Itsuki, and Miki Sakai, who played the young Fujii Itsuki.
The two young people were initially very excited to be selected for the production team.
But in the past two days, after witnessing firsthand the phenomenal performances of Kitahara Shin and Nakayama Miho on set, which could be described as a "battle of the gods," their excitement had long been swallowed up by immense fear and pressure.
The thought of performing that most beautiful first love memory under the watchful eyes of so many big shots made Takashi Kashiwabara so nervous that his hand holding the script trembled uncontrollably, while Miki Sakai almost forgot all her lines.
"They were terrified," Miho Nakayama said softly.
"That's normal. When faced with pressure, you either get crushed or you get tempered."
As he spoke, Kitahara Shin strode over to the two trembling young juniors.
Seeing this super tycoon, who held the record of 5 billion yen in box office revenue and had absolute power in the crew, walking towards them, Kashiwabara Takashi and Sakai Miki were so frightened that they jumped up from the bench and bowed so deeply that they almost buried their heads in a snowdrift.
"Hello, Kitahara-senpai!" the two stammered.
Kitahara Shin stopped in his tracks, looking at the two "end-of-the-century pretty boy" and "nation's first love" who had become legends in the original timeline with this movie and amazed all of Asia. His eyes softened considerably.
He didn't put on any lecturing airs, but instead sat down very naturally on the bench where the two of them had just been, and pointed to the empty seat next to him: "Sit down and talk, don't stand in the cold wind."
The two of them sat on half of their buttocks with trepidation.
"Are you nervous?" Kitahara Shin asked with a smile.
Kashiwabara Takashi swallowed hard and nodded obediently: "Senior and Ms. Nakayama acted so well—we were afraid we wouldn't be able to keep up and would ruin the director's script."
"Whether you act well or not is the director's concern on the monitor, not yours." Kitahara Shin's voice was calm and magnetic, carrying a natural soothing power. "You only need to remember one thing—you are not acting right now."
Takashi Kashiwabara and Miki Sakai were stunned.
"This school is real, the snow on the ground is real, and the library cards you're holding are real too." Kitahara Shin looked at them, imparting the little tricks he had learned from his days struggling at the bottom of society. "Don't worry about where the camera is, and don't worry about whether your expression is good enough. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and focus all your attention on your fingertips. Feel the roughness of the edges of the library cards, feel the sunlight streaming in from the library windows."
"Break your mind. When you feel bored in this situation, sneak a peek at the person next to you." Kitahara Shin pointed to Kashiwabara Takashi. "You find her annoying, but you can't help but want to tease her."
He then pointed to Miki Sakai: "You think he's a weirdo, annoying person, but you can't help but keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eye."
"It's that simple. Strip away the complex emotions and keep only the most instinctive reactions."
Listening to Kitahara Shin's incredibly vivid instructions, the two young men's previously frantic heartbeats miraculously began to calm down. The stiffness brought on by the pressure was being replaced by a sense of security, as if they had found their anchor.
They looked at the high-ranking movie star with surprise and disbelief, never expecting that he would be so kind and patiently teach them, nobodies like themselves.
"Thank you, Kitahara-senpai! We understand!" Kashiwabara Takashi and Sakai Miki stood up in unison, their bows filled with heartfelt gratitude and admiration.
Watching the two young men, their spirits reawakened, run towards the camera, Kitahara Shin leaned back on the bench and let out a long sigh of relief.
The sense of participation in personally guiding and even shaping these stars who are destined to shine in film history is truly exhilarating, like watching a towering tree sprout before your eyes.
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